Threes, Sixes & Thieves

by Cosgrove, Julie B;

“Because I’m on administrative leave, so I wasn’t in anyway involved in the manhunt, nor anywhere near the station at the time of the, um, Wellington incident.”

  She cocked her head to one side and narrowed one eyelid. “You don’t think Wellington committed suicide, do you?”

  “Too soon to tell. I have gaping holes in the timeline. After I begin to fill those in, I might venture a theory.”

  She resumed cutting out her piece, trying not to wince at the loud pops of the stapler as it hit through the fabric and foam onto the wooden base of the chair seat. Blake stapled, stretched, stapled, stretched. He flipped the cushion over. “There. Smooth as butter.”

  “Oh, yes. That is such an improvement. I’ll have enough fabric left over to make a swag valance for the kitchen window. Those curtains are so tired and faded. They never really fit either, but I had them on my kitchen window at the house and the new owners didn’t need them.” She gazed around the room. “Do you think I need to paint the walls, too?”

  He cocked an eyebrow and lowered his chin toward her. “You? Paint?”

  “Why not?”

  Blake grunted as he lifted himself from the floor and went to pour some iced tea.

  “It’s peach.”

  “Hmm. Oh, well. I’m thirsty.” He took a gulp, shuddered, and dragged the sugar bowl across the counter to add a few teaspoons to the brew. Clanking the spoon around the glass, he walked back to their makeshift work area in the middle of the kitchen.

  “I wasn’t hinting you should do it for me, Blake.”

  “Good. Because Mel is already jealous I’m over here instead of at home doing some of the things on her lists.”

  “Shouldn’t you be?”

  He shook his head. “All of hers are heavy duty stuff. Work on the compost pile, trim the trees limbs back from the gutters, clean the gutters, add more pavers to the patio. Replace several slats in the fence. Doc wants me on light duty. Upholstering seat covers doesn’t even work up a sweat.”

  “Very well, then. You said you wanted to interview me some more?”

  “Yes. We can do that while we finish these.” Blake set his cell phone on the table and punched up the recording application. “Tell me in as much detail as possible. What happened from the time you saw the white van until Mike met up with you.”

  “You’re recording it?”

  “Have to. Protocol.”

  She set her work down. “We need to take a break, then or no one will hear a thing over that confounded stapler.”

  He gave her a grin. “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s finish the last two before we do, OK?”

  She slapped her cheek. “Did you record that?”

  “About finishing the last two covers?”

  “No.” She batted her eyelashes at him in jest. “The part where you admit I’m right.”

  He laughed so hard he almost toppled backward.

  SEVENTEEN

  Blake dropped by the office to use the phone, grab some notes, and clear some things from his desk. He pointed to Hemphill who gave him a quizzical look. “I know. I’m not officially here.”

  Hemphill chuckled and went back to his keyboard.

  Blake sat in his chair and dialed the number to the Grayson Police Department. “Yes, Chief Detective Johnson out in Alamoville. I need to get hold of Officer Jamison, please.”

  “We have no Officer Jamison on the force.”

  Blake rocked forward. “No policeman named Jamison?”

  “Correct, sir.” The female responder huffed.

  “Yet my officer from the manhunt two days ago, says he helped apprehend the perp.” Blake rubbed his forehead. “How do you explain that?”

  “I can’t help you, there. All I know is I’ve been on dispatch for twenty-two years, and we’ve never had a Jamison of the Grayson force.”

  “Right. Have your chief call me as soon as possible. This is an I.A. matter.”

  He hung up before hearing her last response. Rude to do that, but irritation bubbled in his throat and he feared anything that came out of his mouth next would be worse.

  Perhaps Amos was confused. Uniforms from town to town look alike. He tapped his pen against the desk and reviewed the roll call transcripts from all the neighboring communities. James, Jones, Jensen, Joseph. No Jamison. He rose and wandered into the main room where detectives’ desks and files stood, commonly known as the D-den, short for detective den.

  Phil rearranged a few personal items on his desktop, his eyes shining like a scared rabbit’s. He sat in the swivel chair and stretched his collar away from his necktie.

  Blake slapped him on the back.

  “First day’s always rough. You’ll do fine. Can you track down Amos Branson for me and have him report to my office.”

  A look of gratitude for having something to do surfaced on Edward’s face. “Sure. On it.”

  Blake nodded, turned to leave, but pivoted back. “Oh, and locate one of the sketch artists in Austin. There are two, I think. One works for the state department of public safety. The other may be retired. Teaches art at the community college.”

  “Sketch artist? Isn’t that a bit old school?” Phil’s lips smashed together as he realized he’d just questioned a superior officer’s orders. His Adam’s apple wobbled. “Sorry, sir.”

  “No problem. Fair question.” Blake grinned. “Yes, it is a bit antiquated, which is why finding one is difficult. There were no surveillance cameras in West Woods and ours in the jail area quit on us two months ago. Camera’s fifteen years old if a day. Can’t find parts and the city council hasn’t approved purchase of a new one.”

  Phil’s shoulders relaxed. “Really? No one ever told us.”

  “Need to know only. If they informed all the members of the force, the surveillance equipment conked out, well...”

  “They might slack off?”

  “Or rough up the prisoners.” He shrugged. “I’ve checked the E.R. films, but the officer in question always had his back to the camera. No audio. So, I want someone to sketch out what this Jamison looks like. The Grayson P.D. is having trouble ID’ing him. I’m thinking a drawn rendition might spark a memory cell or two.”

  “Brilliant idea, sir.”

  “Find one who’s available pronto and have them meet with me and Amos. I’ll authorize the cost.”

  “Roger. Dispatch should have the phone numbers, right?”

  Blake clicked his tongue and gave him a thumbs-up.

  Edward’s eyes brightened. He scooted forward to his desk, snatched a note pad and pen, and picked up his phone’s receiver.

  Hemphill, whose desk sat across the room, leaned back in his chair, his fingers laced behind his neck.“I remember when I acted that eager about being a go-fer,” he muttered to himself.

  “You better still be so.” A familiar booming voice startled Hemphill.

  He jumped to his feet. “Mitch. Welcome back.” He gave his superior a hearty handshake.

  The other policemen stopped whatever they were doing to greet the newly returned detective as well. Blake leaned against the doorjamb of his office and grinned. After the ruckus died down, he caught his partner’s eye. “About time you quit loafin’ around the house.”

  Mitch laughed. “What? So now you can?”

  Blake pushed off. “Exactly. Come on in, and close the door. Let me bring you up to speed. Afterward, pretend I was never here. Got it?”

  Hornsby followed and plopped at his own desk, now void of any papers or files. “This feels right again.” He rubbed his hands over the surface.

  “I bet it does.”

  “Honestly, I didn’t expect to see you here, Blake. Thought you were on admin.”

  Blake flared his nostrils in a deep sigh. “Yeah, well, two dead perps trumped that order. I’m the I.A. investigator on the case.”

  Hornsby’s eyes widened. “So, no vacay?”

  Blake tapped his pen again. “Didn’t say that. If I want to keep my marriage intact, we’ll be beach-bound on Thursday after my follow
-up with the doc.”

  “So, you’re OK, then?”

  “Yeah. Right as rain. Except for Gates ordering me to cram a three-week investigation into two days. Most likely, this puppy will end up in your lap, so I want to give you the heads up.”

  A bit of color returned to Hornsby’s cheeks. A sly smirk edged his lips. “Lay it on me.”

  Blake gave him a quick nod and handed over a copy of his notes. “By the way, I like the moustache.”

  Mitch fingered his upper lip. “My dad grew one as he approached forty. Thought I’d try it out.”

  “Hmm. Think I’ll go all out with the beach comber theme and not shave. Come back with a beard.”

  “Oh, Melody will definitely be excited about that.”

  The two partners chuckled.

  A tap sounded on the door. Phil Edwards stood there with Amos Branson. Blake motioned them in.

  “The sketch artist you requested is on her way, sir. She’s due to arrive in ten minutes.”

  Hornsby rose. “Better tell Gates I’m here.”

  “Actually, Mitch. I’d like you to sit in on this.” He shifted his gaze to Edwards. “Phil, when she gets here, buzz me.”

  “Roger.” He backed away from the entrance and returned to his station.

  Blake stretched his hand toward the police officer. “Hey, Amos. In case Gates didn’t post the memo, I’ve been assigned the I.A. investigator for the manhunt that ended in the death of Les Holden and the subsequent death of Jacob Wellington. I understand you were involved in a large amount of it.”

  The young officer’s face paled. He squeaked out a “Yes, sir.” His eyes darted to both Blake and Hornsby and then to the floor.

  Blake came around and motioned him to sit in the visitor’s chair at an angle to the desk. “You aren’t in trouble. From what I see from your report you did everything above board.”

  The man’s shoulders relaxed. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I want you to tell me about that night. Everything up until you discovered Wellington hanging in his cell. When the sketch artist comes, I want you to describe what the two Grayson officers looked like.”

  Hornsby shifted his weight in his chair. “You don’t already have that?”

  “No, not really.”

  The detective clutched his hands onto the arms of the chair. “May I inquire as to why?”

  Blake tented his fingers. “You may. Seems their roll call is a bit sloppy. The men who Amos’s report says were there are not matching anyone on their payroll.”

  Branson’s complexion paled.

  Hornsby crossed one leg over the other. “Perhaps they have volunteers on the force. Ranchers they deputize in emergencies. Quite common in the boonies.”

  Blake scrunched his mouth to one side. “Good thought. I’m meeting with their chief at two and want to take the drawing with me. It should clear things up. We’ll find out who this Jamison character was and why he was at the scene.”

  “Yeah, most likely you will.” He lifted from the chair. “Look, I have to make a call. Catch up with you in a few?”

  “Sure.” Blake sized him up. Something felt off. “Amos, stay put. I’m going to walk Mitch out and get a cup of coffee. Want one?”

  “No, sir. I’m fine.”

  The two detectives exited the office. At the coffee station, Blake poured for them both. “You antsy about returning, Mitch?”

  He chuckled. “That obvious?”

  “Only to your partner. Get settled in. I’ll brief you later this afternoon when I get back from Grayson. How about a late lunch at the diner on the highway? Say three o’clock?”

  Mitch raised his coffee cup. “Th—thanks, Blake. I owe ya.” He took a sip and scanned the room. “Didn’t think it’d be this rough.”

  “Well you did walk in on another incident of a cop being shot. Gotta bring back a few jitters.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You go through the shrink wrap?”

  “Yep, had to in order to be cleared for duty. Hear you did as well.”

  Blake swallowed the rest of his coffee. “Oh, yeah. So much fun.”

  Hornsby saluted and clicked his heels together. “We serve to please.”

  The two laughed and walked back into the D-den.

  EIGHTEEN

  Blake set a bottle of water down on the desk in front of Amos Branson. “Figured you might need to wet your whistle.”

  The young officer twisted off the cap and took a long gulp. He set it back down and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “What do you want to know, sir?”

  Blake picked up a folder and sat down. “I have your report. You found the perp dangling from the top rung of the jail bars at 7:08 AM?

  “That sounds right.”

  “He was already dead, correct?”

  “Yes, sir. Strangulation. Very obvious. Rigor mortis already setting into the jaw and eyes.”

  “Hmm. Yes, coroner report concurs. Death occurred between four and five. No one checked on him?”

  “I did, sir. About two.” He squirmed. “I, um...I guess after that I fell asleep, sir.”

  “Thank you for being honest about that.”

  “A strong cup of coffee usually gets me through night shift. I had two. Plus, I’m usually a light sleeper. I can’t believe I never heard a thing.”

  A moment of silence hung between them. Blake pushed back in his chair. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. I’ll talk to Gates for you. Adrenaline rushes are common in tense situations. After the rush, the crash occurs.” He gave the officer a wink. “Been there myself. You never heard it from me though, right?”

  “Yes, sir. Chief Gates did warn us of that in the debriefing. I felt fine, though. Honest.”

  “Well, you were still probably on a rush until well after the prisoner was secured in our cell.” Blake rubbed his chin. “So why didn’t the sarge put someone fresh on overnight watch?”

  Branson looked at his hands. “Who was fresh? Everyone responded to the call. Anyway, I volunteered, sir. Everett wanted to go home. His wife is due any day. He was worried about what the stress might have done to her in her condition.”

  “I see.”

  “Mason had already pulled a double. He’d only been off duty a few hours when the call came in. Besides, he and Aaron Jenkins were partners until they shifted Aaron to the western quadrant. The whole thing rattled him badly.” He swallowed another gulp of water and eyed Blake. “How is he, sir? I mean Aaron.”

  Blake shrugged. “Survived the surgery. Haven’t heard anything more.”

  Branson pursed his lips and lowered his chin.

  “Son, I’m in charge of the I.A. on this. That’s why I need to go over this with you. One thing we are not clear on. How did Wellington hurt his ankle and who gave him the bandage?”

  Amos Branson raised his gaze to the ceiling. “I’ve wondered about that as well. Oh, he limped all right. The anesthesia from digging the bullet from his calf wore off fast. However, sir...” He returned his focus to Blake, a question written on his face.

  “Yeah?”

  “I don’t recall him having anything wrapped around his ankle when we put him in the cell. We patted him down thoroughly to make sure he didn’t swipe anything from the E.R.”

  “And yet, according to the coroner’s report, it was bruised and swollen. Forensics confirmed a sprain.”

  Branson shrugged.

  Blake rocked back and groaned. “Great. Just great.”

  “One more thing, sir.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I could’ve sworn I put the bottle of pain pills in the desk. The investigators said they found it stashed under his mattress, empty.”

  “Hmmm.”

  A knock sounded. Phil stood there with a mousy woman about fortyish clutching a sketch pad half as big as she. Blake motioned them inside.

  Over the next thirty minutes, Amos Branson described Jamison as best he could. “Dark, short hair. A bit wavy, too. Square jaw. Narrow eyes and strong eyebrows.” He w
atched as the artist began to sketch the portrait. “Um, thicker. Bushier.”

  “What color were his eyes?”

  “Dark brown, I guess. Oh, and he had a chicken pox scar on his forehead. About here.” He pointed about a half inch above his right eyebrow.

  She added the feature.

  “The nose needs to be wider, and a tad crooked as if it had been broken once.”

  Blake leaned against the wall. “How old do you figure he is?’

  Branson craned to face him. “I dunno. Mid-forties? Like you and Hornsby. His skin seemed weathered as if he’d been outdoors a lot. I’d say he’s about five-eleven. Fairly fit. Wore boots and his jeans were worn in the knees, but not to be stylish. More like old work jeans.”

  Blake set his cup down. “Wait. He wasn’t in uniform?”

  The cop shook his head. “Figured he’d been off duty, but got the call and came runnin’. Showed us his badge, though. Seemed legit. He carried a service revolver. Standard issue Glock.”

  Blake released a long sigh. “Perhaps Mitch is right about him being a deputized rancher. Go on.”

  Branson gave him a scrunched-eyebrow look. “They still do that?”

  “Apparently. Many of the counties west of here are mostly ranches and dwindling towns with barely one hundred folks left in them. Most of them elderly.”

  “Yeah, my grandparents live on the outskirts of one of those. Ever hear of Cherokee up Highway 16?”

  Blake laughed. “You ever hear of Dickens, a half hour east of Lubbock? My ancestors settled around there.”

  The young cop halted, his finger pointing in the air. “Um, there is something else.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You know the lock on that cell door has been quirky, right? We reported it last week when ol’ Mr. Sanford passed out against it and pushed it open.”

  Blake’s blood pressure rose into his neck. “Then why did you put Wellington in there?”

  Branson scratched behind his ear. “Because Sanford was out cold in the other one—again. The man really needs to join Alcoholics Anonymous.”

  “And the city council really needs to get off their behinds and approve at least two more cells. After all, this town is reaching twelve thousand. We’ve added six new subdivisions in the past year. It doesn’t include Sunset Acres or the addition to the new outlet mall, both of which add up to a lot of property tax. You can’t tell me there isn’t the budget for it.” Blake clicked his pen several times in irritation.